Last night in class we talked about truth in writing, how literal detail might give way to deeper observations. I made the point (and this is amazing in itself because I’m usually quiet in class discussions) that it wouldn’t matter whether E.B. White talked about three ruts or two in the path to his house in “Once More to the Lake,” what mattered were the larger points he was making about generations, the passage of time and mortality.

It would matter if White had no son, though, the professor said. And I agree. White’s essay is nonfiction. We expect most of it to be true. If there were no son, then we would doubt White’s veracity in other matters, too, and all of his observations — including his amazing, punch-in-the-gut last line — would be suspect.

Truth, then, can be a slippery thing. Until it’s not.